


That Which is Lost

by w0rdinista (Niamh_St_George)



Series: Amelle Hawke [5]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-07 23:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/pseuds/w0rdinista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A decade after the events in Kirkwall, Amelle Hawke and Fenris have made a quiet life for themselves.  But when their idyll is shattered, Fenris discovers that while men are dealt with easily enough, it is once again magic standing poised to take everything away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a prompt. An anonymous drabble prompt, to be more specific. The prompt was "Unbind Me" (a drabble about one character freeing another), and my anon specifically requested Fenris freeing Hawke after she'd been captured. 
> 
> Yeah, it was meant to be a drabble. A drabble and _not_ almost twenty-thousand words. But sometimes these things take on a life of their own!

“When will I be old enough to walk to town on my own, Mama?”

There were no easy answers to that, Amelle decided.  _When you are old enough for us to know you haven’t got magic and won’t be snatched up by templars,_ she thought, lips pressing into a line as she frowned.  Mirae was only ten, and with every year that passed, Amelle and Fenris breathed a little easier that their eldest might take more after her father than her mother.  It wasn’t that Amelle didn’t want to see her magic passed on, but in a world such as theirs, it had never been more dangerous to be found a mage.  Granted, Ferelden was better than most, but war still raged in many parts of the country, even a decade after the Kirkwall chantry had fallen.  It was not quite the Exalted March many had expected, and the longer it went on, the more people on both sides questioned their own allegiances.  Templars and mages both had split ranks, had changed sides, had in some cases _created_ their own sides, only further muddying the politics behind the war.  Tensions touched every corner of Thedas.  

It was why Amelle and Fenris had chosen such a quiet corner, after all.  Highever was hardly Lothering, but neither was it Kirkwall.  It was also the queen’s homeland, which had always left Amelle feeling strangely safer there.  Both king and queen were sympathetic to mages—much as they could be, at any rate—and Amelle felt certain Highever would be properly fortified, should any threat to the town make itself known.  It was a tiny little section of the world, but _theirs;_ the modest house nestled at the top of a gently sloping hill (“Easily defensible,” Fenris had said with approval), with its vegetable garden that reminded her so very powerfully of Papa’s garden, was the ideal place to allow themselves both to be lost to time.  

And when the rains came, as they so often did, the stream swelled and made passage to the city nigh impossible.  The gently gurgling barrier felt as if it isolated them from the whole world—and even if that were not entirely true, it _felt_ true enough.

But today the sun was shining.  That was a rare enough thing in Ferelden, but they were coming off a bout of storms that had felt nearly endless.  Mirae had very nearly been climbing the walls by the end of it, while Kynne had systematically read through nearly every book in the house, and tiny Arlyn had pestered Fenris until he acquiesced to her oft-repeated desires that he teach her how to wield a sword.  Arlyn was uncommonly persuasive at five, and her father powerless to resist.

But Mirae had sat by the window for days on end, _yearning_ to be outside.  It had been no surprise at all when she’d jumped at the chance to accompany her mother on a walk into town.  This, of course, left Fenris alone with Kynne and Arlyn, and _Maker_ there was a time when the idea of leaving Fenris in charge of _children_ would have made her shudder.  Time, however—and peace—had surprised them both so far as that was concerned.  In truth, Amelle found her surprise renewed whenever she spied Arlyn crawling upon her father’s back, gripping his shoulders and begging a ride in her high, thin voice, or when solemn Kynne respectfully requested Papa listen while he practiced his reading.

“ _Well_ , Mama?”

Or when Mirae tried _wheedling_ something out of him, which she accomplished more times than Fenris liked to admit, much to Amelle’s amusement.

But she would not be able to put off her eldest for very much longer, and Mirae knew it as well as Amelle did.  With a frown, she stooped and picked up a stick, dragging it through the long grass as they walked, their boots squelching in the soft mud beneath their feet.  “It’s a rather long walk, you know.”

“I know.  But I wouldn’t get lost, Mama.  I promise.”

“And it’s far from safe.”

“I’d be careful.  I _promise._ ”

Mirae was a good girl, smart and capable, with sooty curls and green eyes and Fenris’ complexion.  She’d be a beauty when she got older, but for now her cheeks were still soft and round with childhood that Amelle secretly and selfishly hoped wouldn’t fade.

“ _Please_ , Mama?”

She was also _persistent_.  A trait Fenris swore came from Amelle—he often said the same about the wheedling.  She couldn’t _entirely_ deny this, however frequently she tried.

“We’ll see,” Amelle said, cringing even as she said it, for her own mother had said those very words so many times, whenever Amelle wanted to do something new and _grown up._   “Why don’t we talk to Papa about it when we get home?  We’ll see what he says.”

“He’ll say no,” Mirae muttered on a huff, kicking at a damp clump of dirt on the path.  It rolled half-heartedly into a puddle.  “Because he _always_ says no.”

“Yes, well,” Amelle retorted lightly, “if he does, then I don’t have to.”

“Ma _maaa._ ”

“You’re ten years old, Mimi.”

Mirae jutted out her chin and scowled.  “ _Almost_ eleven.”

Had it really been that long?  Amelle swung the stick through the tall grass again.  Six— no, seven years they’d been in Highever, then.  Her belly had been round with Kynne when they’d come here, and Mirae had been tottering around on chubby, unsteady legs.  Amelle sighed.  “Let me think about it.  _And_ let me talk to your Papa about it when we get home.  If you’re serious about wanting more privileges, Mimi, you’re going to have to demonstrate more responsibility.”  She sent her daughter a sidelong glance.  “Going to have to act more grown-up.”

Mirae’s eyes lit up with what sounded very much to her young ears like eventual parental acquiescence, and she smiled.  “I can do that!”

“It might mean more chores…” Amelle said, dragging the words out as she swatted the grass with her stick again.  Mirae’s enthusiasm dampened, but only by ounces.

“I can do it, Mama,” she said again, stopping and crouching to pluck a cluster of wildflowers growing on the side of the road.

“You may have to prove it first, sweetling.”

“I can, Mama,” she replied, swinging her arms as her step lightened with this sudden bright beam of potential freedom before her.  “I promise, I can prove it.”

They walked along, Mirae picking flowers as they went.  She had a fairly sizable bouquet by the time the Highever town wall came into view.  The sounds and smells of market-day reached them long before they saw the brightly colored banners and awnings flapping and rustling in the gentle wind.  Livestock lowed and bleated and clucked, and everything from freshly-baked bread to hand-crafted swords were on display for sale.  Customers haggled with merchants and children ran across and around the square.  From the corner of her eye, Amelle caught Mirae look longingly at the playing children, and then _remembered_ that she was meant to be proving herself; she lifted her chin and turned her head, very pointedly looking _away_ from the other children.

“You may go play if you wish to,” Amelle said, doing a very poor job of hiding her grin.

“No, Mama,” she replied virtuously.  “I’ll help.”

“Hmm.  In that case I suppose I’d better get on task myself, yes?”  She pulled a list from the bottom of her basket.  “Flasks and stoppers, oil for Papa’s sword, a few yards of something pretty for your sister—honestly, she grows out of clothes before she can wear them out—and I’d like to see about the produce.  Farmer Travers has been _bragging_ about his blackberries this season, and I’m curious to see if they’re as good as he’s telling everyone they will be.”  She looked down at her daughter.  “Can you think of anything I might be forgetting?”

Mirae pressed her lips together and frowned in thought.  “Is Uncle Carver still coming for Summerday?”

Amelle hid her wince.  After Kirkwall, she’d been all but certain if Carver returned to the templars, it would have been the end of him.  His faith in the Order outmatched hers, however, and when he did return, reports of Meredith’s madness had got there even before he did.  He and Cullen both were brought back to Ferelden, installed in Amaranthine, after a number of templars had been disgraced and kicked out of the Order—Cullen as Knight-Commander and Carver, eventually, as his Knight-Captain.  

Her brother’s last letter hadn’t sounded terribly promising that he’d be able to make it over from Amaranthine.  But Mirae was uncommonly fond of her uncle.  “I don’t know, sweetling,” she said gently.  “I’m sure he’ll try.”

“Then we should see if Miss Laetitia is selling any of her red currant jam.”  She paused.  “Just in case.”

“Red currant jam for Carver,” Amelle repeated thoughtfully.  “Anything special for Papa?  He might feel left out if you’ve chosen something particular for your uncle.”

Mirae’s expression was one of deep skepticism that said, so clearly, _Don’t be silly, Mama._   “You know he likes blackberries best.”

“I see.  And since we’re _already_ getting blackberries…”  At Mirae’s nod, she sighed.  “Nothing you’re willing to pick out special for your father then,” she said mournfully.

Skepticism wavered into uncertainty.  “Well…”

“We’ll look around.  See if anything jumps out at you.”

Together they wandered the square, weaving around stalls and stopping occasionally to peer at sweets, cloth, amulets or rings.  She spied a staff that would’ve suited her admirably, once upon a time, and her fingers lingered over it, wondering who in the Maker’s name would be idiotic enough to buy a _magical stave_ at an _open market_ in this day and age. Still, it was quite handsome, with twined metal twisting around itself like a vine, wrapped delicately around a stone every bit as blue as the Waking Sea.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Mirae peering curiously at a bow and quiver of arrows.  _Interesting._  

They’d only worked through half the items on their list, and had stopped to admire a merchant’s collection of runes and amulets when an uncomfortable prickling crawled across her skin, settling at the base of her scalp.  Someone was watching her.  _Them._

She asked the seller a question about the quality of the stone in one rough-hewn amulet, and when he invited her to take a closer look, she did, stepping back and holding the pendant up to the sun, pretending to scrutinize its quality.  About five stalls down, she caught a glimpse of a woman with ginger hair, clad in mismatched armor, a sword and shield upon her back; she was watching Amelle for all she’d been pretending to examine a pair of gauntlets.

Still.  She could have been mistaken.  Certainly wouldn’t have been the first time.

She didn’t buy the amulet, but when her fingers brushed across a band of silverite, she felt the distinct tingle of magic chase across her skin.

“This one’s pretty,” she said absently, trying to hear how her mana answered when she touched the ring.  Fire, perhaps?  Yes.  That felt right.

 _Healing,_ something else whispered in her.  _Defense._

“Oh, aye, that one’s a regular treasure.  Came across it meself during my travels across the Free Marches—”

“I’ll take it.”

Ignoring Mirae’s wide-eyed look, Amelle handed over the coin for the ring and slipped it on the middle finger of her right hand where it settled comfortably against her skin with a barely perceptive hum.

“Mama?”

Amelle just smiled at the merchant. “I don’t suppose you’d have anything that might fit this young lass’ finger?” 

“Why,” he said, clearly smelling another sale, “I believe I’ve got just the thing…”  From a trunk he pulled out a smaller selection of rings crafted to fit younger, more slender fingers.

“Mm, that’s perfect,” she replied, gently running her fingers over each and every one, until the cold metal of one simple band buzzed against the pads of her fingertips.  _Healing.  Speed.  Protection._

“That one.”

Mirae’s eyes were huge as Amelle slipped the ring on her daughter’s finger.  “Let’s call it an early nameday present,” she said, winking.  “After all, you _are_ nearly eleven.”

Unfortunately, Amelle hadn’t exactly brought enough coin to go on spending in this manner.  She picked out another ring and amulets for herself and Mirae.

And if it turned out that they _hadn’t_ really been followed through the market and eyed by suspicious-looking characters, then she would blame her bout of paranoia on Fenris, because this was clearly his influence.  Another careful glance, though, revealed the same woman, now at a different stall, still watching her.  Oh, she was being subtle about it, but there was still something about the way the woman turned her attention to something else the very moment Amelle turned her head.  

“Come on, sweetling,” she said to Mirae in an undertone.  “There are a few more things I’d like to look at.”  Keeping her steps slow and measured, almost leisurely, Amelle visited nearly every stall and cart of goods, whether she was interested or not.  She caught sight of two more individuals in the same type of mismatched armor.  It reminded her, incongruously, of her Kirkwall days, when they’d loot the bodies of the men they’d bested, collecting armor and runes and weapons.

Amelle wondered, suddenly, if those pieces of armor had been looted off of dead men.  

She led Mirae by the first weapons dealer again, the one that had the staff for sale, wondering if she ought to have bought it—idiotic or not—when she first noticed something was amiss.  _No,_ she thought, _better not to let whoever’s watching know you’ve noticed them._ There’d been a time when she wouldn’t have cared, when she, secure in her status as Kirkwall's Champion, would have bought a staff in the bloody Gallows marketplace.  There had been a time when she would have faced them all down herself.

Now all she cared about was getting Mirae home safe.

The longer they browsed and dawdled, the more certain Amelle became they were being followed.  Finally, she ducked into a bookshop and tugged Mirae behind a shelf.

“Mama, what—”

“Hush, darling,” she said, dropping to her knees.  “There’s something I need you to do.  It’s very important, so I need to you to listen carefully.”

Mirae appeared too stunned to do anything but nod.

“I need you, my darling girl, to go out the back way and, careful as you can, run home.  Run all the way home, fast as you can.  Don’t stop for anyone.  Not the guard, not a templar— _no one._   Run home and—”

Her daughter’s face, those rounded cheeks, her jutting jaw, went suddenly pale, her eyes filling with tears.  “I can’t, Mama— it’s too— it’s too far.  I _can’t_.  What happened?  What’s wrong?”

“It doesn’t matter what’s wrong.  What matters is that you _run home_ and fetch your father.  Tell him… tell him— _blast_ it.”  Tell Fenris _what?_   She took a deep breath and let it out.  “Tell your father there’s trouble.  Tell him I’ve led them out the west gate.”  That was in the opposite direction as home, giving Mirae a clear path.

“Led _who_ out the—”

“Mirae Hawke.”  At Amelle’s tone, her daughter subsided, though looked no less afraid, no less worried.  “There isn’t time to ask questions.  You must hurry.  Run home.  All the way.  Stay out of sight if you can.”  A plan was forming in her mind and it would be a miracle beyond miracles if they’d be able to remain in Highever afterward, depending on how things played out.  She hoped they played out well.

After an unbearably long pause, Mirae bit her bottom lip and nodded.  “Yes, Mama.  Run home, fast as I can.  Get papa.  Tell him you left out the west gate.”

“That’s it, my darling, brave girl,” she said in a rush, leaning forward to kiss Mirae’s forehead.  “You can do this.  I know you can do this.”

Suddenly, a pair of thin arms wrapped tightly around her neck.  “Something’s wrong,” whispered Mirae.  “Isn’t it?”

“I sincerely hope not.”

“It is.”

“…Maybe.”

The butterfly-brush of a kiss across her cheek was nearly Amelle’s undoing.  “I’ll hurry, Mama,” Mirae breathed before turning and rushing to the back door of the bookshop.  

Amelle stood, dashing away the sudden tears blinding her, and took a deep breath, trying to clear her mind and remember who she’d been once.  She was _Hawke_ , damn it, Champion of Kirkwall.  She bested the sodding Arishok in single combat.  She could handle a few mercenaries.  What were they?  Coterie?  Carta?  They were _amateurs_ , is what they were.

“Yes, that’s more like it,” she murmured to herself.  “Now let’s not dwell on the times I got my arse handed to me on a platter and I should be just fine.”  Pushing the bookshop door open, Amelle strolled out into the sunshine, keeping her posture relaxed, letting the basket swing gently from her elbow.  Going from merchant to merchant, she counted her mismatched friends—three, no _four_.  All right, four.  None of them seemed terribly concerned that she was alone now, and even better, they were still looking at _her._   Slowly, Amelle made her way to the first weapons dealer she’d visited, laying eyes once more on the staff.

“Come back to look again?” The merchant was an older gentleman with a tuft of white, almost comically unruly hair.  She’d seen him frequently over the years—one of the traveling merchants—but had never actually _bought_ anything from his stall before.

Amelle kept her smile bland.  “It’s quite pretty,” she told him.  “What does it do?”

The man’s grin froze somewhat.  “What does it… _do_?”

“Yes.  What does it do?  It’s clearly not a sword, or a bow, or… tell me,” she said, blinking wide eyes at him, “are you meant to _bludgeon_ someone with it?”

He blinked, as if wondering how one woman could be so dim.  “You don’t… know what this is?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have _asked_ if I knew, would I?  All I can think of is that it must be an uncommonly pretty walking stick that doubles as a bludgeon.”  She planted both palms on the top of the rickety table and leaned forward, lowering her voice.  “Because it’s not as if any _reputable_ merchant would sell a _mage’s staff_ out in the open in front of everybody, hmm?  That’s the sort of thing templars wouldn’t take too kindly to, I imagine.”  

The man blanched and Amelle felt a fleeting kick of guilt.  “I—listen, I don’t want any trouble,” he replied in a shaky whisper.  “And I sure as the Void don’t need trouble with the bloody templars.”

“I’d be happy to take it off your hands,” Amelle riposted lightly.  “Just so it’s not here the next time they patrol the square.”  In truth, Amelle had less than no idea how often templars patrolled the town square, or if they did at all. The important thing was that _he_ thought the templars patrolled.  “It’s up to you, of course.”

“That staff—”  Amelle silenced him with a _look._   He cleared his throat.  “That… walking stick.  A mage traded it to me outside of Gwaren six months ago.  Haven’t been able to get rid of the blighted thing since.”

“So I’d… be doing you a _favor,_ ” replied Amelle slowly, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Aye.”

Amelle began looking through her belongings to find something she could possibly, _potentially_ trade for the staff.  

“I’d take that ring you’ve got, lassie.”

Freezing, Amelle clenched her left hand and held it close, hiding the hammered gold band against her chest.  “This was a gift from my husband.”

“I’d still trade for it.”

 _Yes,_ she scolded herself sharply, _and if four mercenaries kill you because you didn’t have a decent weapon to defend yourself with, they’ll loot it off your corpse and then where will you be?_

She took a deep breath in and let it out slowly.  “All right.  On _one_ condition.”

The wizened old man furrowed thick brows at her.  “Name it.”

“I’m coming back for this ring,” she said, slowly and evenly as she pulled the ring from her finger and handed it over.  “Do _not_ sell it.  But if you see a white-haired, tattooed elf before I come back for it, _sell it to him._ ”

The old man agreed, as he handed over the staff.  Amelle took it, holding it out and testing the weight a moment before nodding and propping it against her shoulder.

“I will be back for that ring.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment, lass.”

Very deliberately, Amelle removed the basket from her elbow and set it upon the weapon merchant’s stall.

“Shall I make sure your elf takes that, too?” he asked.

“If I don’t come back for it myself?  Yes, please.”

With the staff resting on her shoulder, Amelle looked around until she saw the female mercenary.  After a second or two, the woman finally met her gaze and, lifting her hand in a little wave, she winked, and broke into a run.  Perhaps it was foolish to bait them so, but as she darted between buildings and leapt over puddles, she wanted to make certain they’d _chase her_ and not, say, be keeping an eye out for Mirae.

 _Maker, watch over her,_ she thought, heart beating hard as she scrambled around a pastry merchant bellowing about his fresh-baked turnovers.  A quick glance over her shoulder showed Amelle that the four mercenaries were indeed in pursuit and she pushed a little harder, running just a little faster.  

It occurred to Amelle with a pang of dismay that she wasn’t quite as nimble as she’d been in the old days.

Sprinting down one narrow alley and then another, she took a sharp left and ran hard for the west gate.  As her booted feet hit the stones with every stride, the shock of the impact ached up her legs, but then she sprinted through the gates and met the far more forgiving grass and dirt path.  And three more mercenaries, a man and two women.

_Shit._

Taking the staff up in her hands, Amelle felt the enchantments buzz to life as she took a breath of mana and funneled a burst of force magic down the staff, never breaking stride.  The air rippled and shifted, and sent the mercenaries sprawling to the ground before they could even draw their weapons.  The path turned and sloped downward some, and as Amelle ran, she dug her feet hard into the mud, determined to make it as easy as possible for Fenris to find the fight.

She skidded to a stop about twenty yards from the gate and looked around.  The seven mercenaries hadn’t quite surrounded her, but they were slowly fanning out as they approached.  It was odd, Amelle thought, that _mercenaries_ would move with such… precision.  She swiped the sweat from her face with one forearm and squinted up at them.

“I’m really not sure you want to do this!” she called up at them, taking slow steps backward as she hefted the staff.  The stone at the top glowed softly.  As if in answer to that gentle glow, the mercenaries armed themselves.  Two carried greatswords, while one held a sword and shield.  Three wielded daggers.  Only one had a bow and arrow.

The woman in the middle stepped forward—the ginger woman she’d noticed in the market—and yelled down to her, “Are you Amelle Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall?”

“Never heard of her,” replied Amelle, fingers so tight around the staff they began to ache.  “Sorry to disappoint you.”  She looked around.  “You know, this doesn’t _have_ to end badly.”

“Oh, it won’t,” the woman said.  “Not for us, at any rate.  I’ll ask again:  Are you Amelle Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall?”

“You know, I think she retired,” Amelle replied, taking a deep breath and letting her mana grow bright and sharp in her veins, letting it build and build and _build_.  “So you’re a bit late.”

They were still advancing, slowly.  Advancing and fanning out, preparatory to, Amelle _assumed_ , surrounding her.  And that would never do.  She took several more steps backward, letting her mana gather.  She’d once dabbled in force magic, but that was more than a decade ago now, and though her spirit healing abilities had never been stronger, they weren’t likely to do her much good now.  So she let the mana build and pulse, and set her mind to shaping it to pushing forth a telekinetic burst that would send the mercs flying and give her an advantage.

“Who are you with, anyway?” she asked, letting the power funnel down her arms.  “Some branch of the Carta?  The Coterie, maybe?  Some other new player?”

There.  _There._   Amelle exhaled and let the mana _rush_ forward, into the staff; she felt the weapon focusing her power, letting her shift it, pull it, twist it, _mold_ it, and then she released the spell.

It caught three members off-guard, and they went sailing backwards.  The ginger woman, though, stepped forward and pushed a rushing pulse of bright white light forward, negating the spell.

A _cleanse_.  

They weren’t mercenaries at all.

They were _templars._ She was _surrounded_ by templars.  That was why they moved together with precision, and that was why they hadn’t been the slightest bit interested in her daughter.  

Adrenaline _surged_ through her as Amelle turned on her heel and _ran._

The further she charged down the hill, the muddier the terrain got, sucking and slurping around her boots, so she tore off into the trees, hoping she might at the very least slow them down by throwing obstacles in their way.  As Amelle hurtled through the woods, she flung spells behind her as fast as she knew how, never bothering to look whether fireballs hit their mark, or whether they dissolved into nothing with the faintest pop of air.  She pushed jagged chunks of ice up through the ground, sent blast after blast of frigid air and twining streams of lightning behind her.  All the while, as she ran, arrows whizzed past her ears and holy smites blasted the ground just feet from where she’d just been.

It didn’t make sense, she thought feverishly as she jumped over fallen logs and scrambled through underbrush.  Carver was a templar.  If someone— _anyone_ —had been planning something like _this,_ he’d have _told her._   He’d have _warned_ her.   She hoped.

Pushing a burst of mana forward, Amelle flash-froze a wide pond in front of her.  She slid and skidded over the hard, slick surface, and then sent a fireball sailing behind her, reducing it to slush.  But with that spell, she felt her dwindling reserves begin to ache in that strange, hollow way that always meant she was too close to empty.  The amulet, the rings, the staff—all of it had _helped,_ but it wasn’t going to be enough.  And she had no lyrium potion to speak of.  Idiotic.  _Idiotic._   Leaving the house without a weapon. Without lyrium.  Without _anything._   She’d gotten lazy, complacent, _sloppy._ Highever had felt safe to her, and she had allowed herself to be lulled into security over the intervening years.

Huffing a litany of curses under her breath as she ran, every pounding step reverberating like a pulse in her ears, Amelle scrambled over a fallen oak tree, nearly fully covered with soft green moss.  The moss offered no traction, and Amelle’s momentum sent her sailing forward, the staff spinning out of her hands.  Her boot snagged on one of the fallen tree’s boughs as she fell, and though she tried to catch herself, her caught ankle twisted until something cracked, sending a sharp bolt of pain up her leg.  The staff landed in the grass too far ahead of her to reach it, and there seemed no other option available to her but to land hard upon the damp, grassy earth, roll to her feet, and run on a broken ankle until she had mana enough to send a burst of healing energy down to it.  

That all changed in a burst of light that slammed ferociously against her spine, turning her vision white and silencing the mana in her veins.  For a moment, for a perfect, terrifying moment, she was blind, deaf, and insensible to everything but white light.  She knew she was about to hit the ground, but did not feel it.  She heard nothing but her own galloping heartbeat, saw nothing but white light as it engulfed her and drained her, fading only in time for her to fall to the forest floor, like a broken doll.  

And when the white light faded, there was nothing but darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Mirae ran.  

She ran and ran until her legs and lungs burned, and still she ran.  She’d never run quite so fast or so far without resting, but every time she thought to slow down or even stop, she remembered the look on Mama’s face.  Pinched and pale and _worried._   She’d never seen her mother so worried, ever.

_“It doesn’t matter what’s wrong.  What matters is that you run home and fetch your father.”_

It was a bad dream.  It had to be—she _wanted_ it to be a bad dream.  What she _didn’t_ want, what Mirae absolutely _did not want_ was to be running home all alone, knowing that Mama was in trouble and she had to get Papa, because that meant _real_ trouble.  That meant trouble worse than foxes getting into the chickens or wolves going after the sheep.  

_“Tell your father there’s trouble.”_

She ran faster.  Mud caked her boots and splattered up her legs and across her dress.  She felt sweat pouring off of her, drenching her back, sliding down into her eyes, but she didn’t dare stop.  And when she finally saw the outline of their home against the blue, blue sky, she sucked in a breath—it wasn’t a sob, it _was not_ a sob, she was a big girl and she wouldn’t cry, not while she was doing this, not when it was so _important_ —and ran harder, pelting up the hill.

_Get Papa.  Tell him Mama left out the west gate._

She could do this.  Nearly there.  _Nearly there._

_“That’s it, my darling, brave girl.”_

Grasping the door and giving it a sharp yank, Mirae flung herself inside the house, making it barely three steps inside before falling hard to her knees.  Papa and—and _Uncle Carver,_ Uncle Carver was there and they were both _looking_ at her and Uncle was holding Arlyn, but then gently unwinding her little sister’s arms from around his neck and setting her down as Papa rushed forward, dropping into a crouch and checking her immediately for injury.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice low and urgent as he pushed her hair back from where it stuck to her forehead.  “What is wr—”  And then he _stopped_ and looked above Mirae’s head at the door still open behind her.  “Where… is—Mirae, where is your mother?” he asked.  She’d never heard him sound like that, not Papa; his voice sounded wrong, it was too soft and choked and—

“Mama said to come get you,” she told him, the words rushing out in a tumble.  “She said to run as fast as I could and get you an—and there were _people_ , Papa.  People were watching us at the market.  She didn’t—she didn’t like them.  She told me to come get you and to hurry and—and—” _No, no, no, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry_ , she scolded herself. “—And she was going to try and lead them out the west gate and _you have to hurry, Papa._ ”

But fear and exhaustion and worry that had been determined to worm its way down to her bones finally crept in now that she wasn’t running home, now that she _was_ home, and she felt her lip tremble even as Papa’s face got blurry with her tears.

“Who was watching, Mimi?” asked Uncle Carver, pulling her close as Papa stood up—his face was like stone and he didn’t say _anything_ , he just stood up and stalked out of the room.  “Did you notice who was watching  you two?”

Mirae sniffled and hiccuped as she scrubbed at her face with her muddy sleeve, grit scratching along her cheek.  “They were wearing armor.  But it was… ugly,” she said, frowning.  “Funny looking.  None of it looked like it belonged together.”

“Mercenaries, from the sounds of it,” Uncle called back over his shoulder.  “That’s a good girl,” he said, looking back to Mirae, running a hand over her tangled, sweaty hair.  “You did very well.”

“Where _is_ Mama?” Kynne asked her.  Mirae shot her uncle a helpless look, and he stood up, sweeping Mirae up into his arms as he did.  Any other time she might have groused, might have reminded him she was _too old_ to be picked up like a baby.  But any other time was not _now._

“She had to stay behind in town for a little while,” Uncle said, rubbing a hand across her back, holding her tightly.  Mirae wrapped her arms around Uncle’s neck, burying her face in his shoulder as he said, “Your father’s going to fetch her, don’t you worry.”

She hoped Uncle was right.

When Papa came back down, his sword was on his back and he was dressed in the armor he never wore anymore.  Normally it hung on a stand in Mama and Papa’s room, all gleaming black leather and shining metal, and though he never wore it—Mirae hadn’t ever seen him wear it, anyway, not that she could remember—he still kept it clean.  And when Mama would tease him about it, he’d just look at her and say, “I am keeping it ready.”

Mirae always used to wonder what he was keeping the armor ready for.  Now she wished she didn’t know.

“If she led pursuers out of the west gate,” he said, adjusting his gauntlets and flexing his fingers, “it’s likely her intent was to lead them somewhere isolated.”

“So she could defend herself and not be seen doing it, you mean,” Uncle said.  Papa nodded, then scowled.

“She left home unprepared for any altercation.”  His scowl got worse.  “I do not believe she had so much as a bottle of lyrium potion on her.”

“And it’s not like she could just buy some at the market,” Uncle muttered.

“She bought rings,” Mirae said, pulling her head from her uncle’s shoulder.  “She bought me a ring and said it was an early nameday present, and then she bought a necklace—amulet, I mean—and…”  Her words trailed off as Uncle Carver carefully pulled the amulet off with one hand.

“Definitely got some enchantments in it,” he murmured, holding the pendant between his fingers and peering at it.  “So she found herself in a scrape and…”

“Did what she could with what she had.”

“Because she is Hawke,” her father said quietly.  He nodded once at Uncle.  “Stay with—”

“You don’t even have to tell me,” Uncle replied.  “Just go.  Bring her back.”

Papa came close and, so very gently, laid one hand atop her head, pressing a kiss to her hair.  “You did well, Mirae.  You were very brave; I’m proud of you.”

Without another word, he was out the door.  It closed behind him with a heavy, hollow sound.

 _Bring Mama back, Papa,_ she thought, hugging Uncle hard about the neck again.  _Please._

###

Ten years.  _Ten years._  

No, more than that, Fenris realized.  Mirae was nearly eleven, and they’d traveled a year after fleeing Kirkwall.  Yes, it had been almost a year by the point Amelle began suspecting she was with child.  It had been he who’d insisted they marry; she hadn’t thought he’d care to be so… bound to another.

 _“I—I just hadn’t really ever thought you the marrying_ type, _Fenris.”_

_“And what did you think I meant when I said I would walk into our future by your side?”_

_“Well, I’d… I’d thought you’d meant it… literally, of course.  Walking.  By my side.”_

_“Marry me, Amelle Hawke.  Unless you do not—“_

_“Oh, not another word, elf.”_

Ten years.  Longer.  Indeed, though he could put numbers to it, Fenris could hardly remember life without Amelle—without _Hawke_ , for a part of him would always think of her as “Hawke” first—by his side.  It had taken them this long to grow lazy.  Complacent.

Happy.

There was a time she wouldn’t have left the house without a weapon of some sort, without a few bottles of potion clinking musically in her satchel.  It hadn’t seemed so long ago on the one hand.  On the other, it felt like a lifetime.  Things had been quiet.  The world had forgotten the Champion of Kirkwall, or so they’d thought.  Evidently not the whole world.

He wasted no time on the route to Highever proper, ears attuned to the sounds of battle, to the crackle of lightning on such a clear day.  But Fenris heard nothing.  He hadn’t heard anything remotely sounding like an altercation the whole distance to Highever, and by the time he reached the east gates, his heart was pounding and his something cold and leaden had settled in his gut.

The market thrummed with activity.  He stalked through the square, eyes keen for the blue dress Amelle had left the house wearing that morning, his chest tight with the possibility that whatever had seemed wrong enough to alarm her so had turned out to be nothing of great consequence.  A false alarm.  A mistake.  

But then he thought of the tears streaming from his daughter’s eyes—no, Amelle would have come straight home if there had been no altercation.  She wouldn’t have simply gone back to her shopping without the first thought for Mirae or—

“You there, ser!” A voice called.  “You!  Elf!  With the white hair—yes, _you_!”

Fenris barely glanced at the old man.  “I have no time for your wares, merchant.”

“Your wife said—”

Those words snagged his attention like no other possibly could have, and Fenris turned and closing the distance to the stall in three strides.  “What do you know of my wife?” he asked the merchant, his voice low, his fury barely contained.

The old man, startled by the vehemence of Fenris’ reaction, put his hands up, placatingly.  “Not much, ser, not much.  She’s about this tall,” he said, holding a hand out.  “Dark hair.  Green eyes.  She traded for one of my, ah…” he looked around, “ _walking sticks._ ”

Amelle had not been unarmed.  That news, almost more than any other, relieved Fenris no end.

Until the old man held up a painfully familiar ring.  And then he felt the world fall away.  She would not have traded that ring— _not_ _that ring_ —unless she’d been well and truly certain of the danger at hand.

“Said she’d be coming back to buy it back,” the old merchant said.  “Left her basket of shopping too, but it was the ring she was choked up about leaving.  She told me if I saw her husband first, I was to give it to him.  Said it was a gift.”  Before Fenris could say anymore, the old man thrust his hand out, holding the band between two fingers.  “Take it.”

He didn’t argue, but instead took the ring, tucking it away into a pocket.  “What happened, merchant?”

“She traded that ring to me for a staff,” he answered in a low tone.  “Before that, she bought rings and amulets from my neighbor two stalls down.  ‘Bout an hour after she left with the staff, a redheaded woman turned up with the staff, rings, and an amulet for trade.”  He waved a hand at an intricately crafted staff, two rings, and an amulet so charged with magic, the lyrium in his skin buzzed in response.

Fenris’ stomach clenched and dropped the moment he realized what the man had just told him.  “No,” he breathed, before realizing he’d said anything at all.  “No.”

“Wish I could give you more than that, lad.”

“This woman,” he growled, hands clenching to fists.  “Tell me what she looked like.”  _So I will know her face when I end her._

The account that came wasn’t unlike the one Mirae had given.  The woman had been red-headed, with a pinched sort of look to her face.  The armor had been strange—mismatched, which supported Carver’s theory they’d been mercenaries.  The merchant saw four of them pursue Amelle after she left his stall—at a run, the merchant noticed, and after making a point to catch their attention.  This had to have been after she’d sent Mirae on her way—she was distracting them, drawing them away from the east gate so Mirae could escape safely.  He knew Amelle too well—he knew by now how she _thought_ , and he’d fought by her side for too many years not to recognize her tactics.

 _I will find you_ , he thought, swallowing past the lump in his throat and pressing one hand against the pocket that held her ring.  _I will find you and I will revisit any harm done to you a hundredfold onto the heads of those who hurt you._

“Thank you,” he said thickly.  “I must—”

“I understand, lad.  Do what you’ve got to.”

Amelle’s ring burned through the leather pocket, scorching his skin as he left the marketplace at a run, hoping against the ice settling in his gut, hoping against evidence and reason that Amelle—his wife, his _Hawke_ —was yet all right.

Highever’s western gate opened to a wide, well-worn road.  The recent rains had softened the earth to mud, particularly where the hills dipped into gullies, but it was not so damp as to hide the tracks left before.  There had been some foot traffic, but not enough to churn up the road.  Before long he found tracks he was nearly certain belonged to Amelle.  They were deeper than the rest, which made sense if she’d left the market at a run.  Then, he saw, she’d slowed to a walk.  Stood still a moment.

And then, if mud and tracks did not lie, she spun around—in a rush, for the indentation in the mud was deepest right there—and ran.  He walked outward from those tracks, examining the footprints of whoever she’d confronted.

Seven sets of footprints. Four had chased her out of the market, and three were waiting here for her.  That was odd, though perhaps not out of the question, if the other mercenaries had been watching the chase and determined she was heading this way.

What was even stranger, and more troubling, was the presence of Amelle’s footprints—and there was no doubt she’d left this spot at a run—and the absence of any evidence pointing to magic use.  He’d fought enough by her side to know Amelle favored fireballs and lightning, but there was no evidence of her tell-tale scorching anywhere.

Not until he followed the tracks to the tree-line, anyway.  _There_ he saw blackened earth, saplings smoldering with half-hearted flames that could not do more than smoke in such rain-soaked wood. He passed a wide pond that had, at one point, been frozen solid.  Now it was mostly melted, with chunks of slush floating as it continued to melt.

The earth was churned up by her pursuers—they tried to flank Amelle at various points, or it looked is if they had, but she’d evidently managed to stay ahead of them until…

Fenris climbed over an enormous oak tree, its trunk easily as thick as any man was tall, and saw a horrible indent in the damp leaf-covered ground.  The chase ended there.  With his pulse pounding like thunder in his veins, pounding in his ears, deafening him, Fenris crouched by that forlorn spot.

There was no blood.  No blood upon the leaves, no blood soaked into the dirt.  There was no blood, dried or otherwise, on the spot where his wife had fallen.

No blood meant there was a chance, a _hope_ she was still alive.

###

It was her ankle’s painful throbbing that woke Amelle, and when she awoke, it was to darkness.  Raw, clawing panic surged up through her chest, tightening her throat when she tried to move, but could not, and when she tried to call out, but could not.  As her mind cleared and she became more aware of her situation, the panic did not abate; it simply broadened, filling her heart, her limbs, her head with a sharp awareness and a certainty that she was most definitely in a _great deal of trouble_ , which was better than it sharpening to an all-consuming, blinding-bright pinpoint from which she could not look away.  

She was bound.  That much Amelle was certain of.  She was on her side and her arms had been twisted behind her back, and tied with… _rope,_ yes, it was rope, she realized as she flexed her fingers slowly and felt the thick, rough bands of twine cutting into her wrists.  Her arms were pinned to her sides as well, and she was bound at the ankles—it had been the pressure of the bindings against her injured ankle that had woken her.  She blinked again and tried to look around, but no… some kind of hood had been pulled over her head.  Some manner of thick cloth had been worked between her teeth; she felt the knot behind her head as she tried again to move—and that movement made her aware of another piece of troubling news: something was around her neck.  Something unyielding, and something that _hurt_ whenever she tried to turn her head.  If she lay very, very still, the pressure around her neck was bearable, but movement, any movement, felt like teeth tearing her flesh.

Yes, _definitely_ in trouble.

 _Think, Amelle.  Think,_ she scolded herself.  _This is not the worst scrape you’ve been in.  Just calm down and think._

She was warm, uncomfortably so, and the more aware she became, the more she became aware of the fact that it was difficult to breathe beneath such a hood.  So she closed her eyes and concentrated, inhaling and exhaling slowly.  And then she realized something: she was moving.  She was moving on something and covered with—it itched at her legs and hands; she inhaled again— _hay._ So wherever she was being brought, it was to be done in secret, which made no sense to Amelle; since when had templars ever _hidden_ the fact that they’d recovered mages?  The war had changed some things, but it hadn’t changed _that,_ surely.  

Then the moving-something hit a dip in the road (she _assumed_ they were on a road, at least), and the shock of the jolt sent a wave of pain shooting up her leg such that her eyes watered with it, successfully diverting her train of thought.

Templars or not, trouble or not, clearly the first order of business was to heal her bloody ankle.

But as Amelle breathed in and reached down inside herself, where her mana pulsed, she realized something that sharpened that broad panic into the very sort of white-hot lance of terror she’d been trying to avoid: _it wasn’t there._   Her mana was silent.  She feared for one horrible, anxiety-soaked moment she’d been made Tranquil, but no, if she were Tranquil she wouldn’t have her fear, and she was absolutely experiencing _that_ particular emotion, no doubt about it.

 _Scratch that.  This_ is _the worst scrape you’ve been in._

She flexed her fingers again, pulling against the bindings, fingertips just barely brushing a series of knots.  Normally she’d have just burned away the rope, and surely templars would have _known_ that, but— 

The thing Amelle was increasingly sure was a cart jostled again, and whatever was around her neck—a collar of sorts?—bit deeper into her flesh, painful enough that she let out a soft, muffled yelp.  

 _It’s blocking your mana,_ she realized with a burst of sharp, cold clarity _.  Whatever it is, it’s blocking your mana.  Get it off, and you’re out of here._

That part, unfortunately, was far easier said—or, in this case, _thought_ —than done.

Fenris.  Fenris had surely made it to Highever by now.  Perhaps he’d seen the path, so torn up by her own boots and those of the templars.  No—he wouldn’t know they were templars, there was no way he _could_ know; they hadn’t been wearing their armor.

And wasn’t _that_ strange?

 _No,_ she thought, pulling her mind back to Fenris. _No distractions.  He’s made it to Highever by now.  He’s following._

 _Unless Mirae didn’t make it—_ Amelle’s heart froze in her chest.

_No.  Stop.  Mirae made it home, she told Fenris what happened, and he’s coming.  He’ll get this thrice blighted whatever-it-is off my neck, and then I am going to blast these bastards off the bloody map.  I might even let him help._

Finally the jostling stopped.  Amelle closed her eyes and listened hard—she could hear muffled conversation, but nothing intelligible.  Then hands began moving away the hay that covered her and the scent of it filtered through the hood, reminding her painfully and incongruously of _home_.  She was hefted up and slung over a shoulder, carried a ways, and then dropped unceremoniously to the ground; it hurt and she couldn’t help the grunt of pain, deep in her throat.

“Think she’s awake,” a voice said.

It was the ginger woman’s voice that answered on a cruel chuckle.  “Not like she can do anything.”

Then the ropes were cut from her wrists and body, but before Amelle could do anything more than flex her fingers, hands like a vice closed around her wrists and she was jerked upright, hauled against a—a tree?  Yes.  Rough bark scraped her back through the thin material of her dress.  Her aching arms were pulled sharply behind her and bound all over again.  The bindings at her ankles were likewise cut—and, oh, the absence of pressure against her ankle was enough to make her want to sob in relief, but neither was that to last.  A heavy hand on her shoulders shoved her down to her knees, followed by unyielding pressure and the soft, terrifying clink of metal.  More rope was wound around her chest, securing her to the tree.

Then the hood was pulled off and Amelle blinked hard; it was dark but for a blazing campfire, but that bit of light was still enough to make her wince as her pupils contracted.  Once her vision focused again, she looked up and around her.  The seven templars were still there, though most of them were sat around the fire, hardly paying her any mind.  Ginger—and Amelle was beginning to think she was the one in charge of that group—stood in front of Amelle, arms crossed with the satisfaction of one admiring a job well done.  She wanted to burn the smirk off that woman’s lips.

But what Amelle hadn’t expected, hadn’t expected in a million years, was to _recognize_ man standing next to Ginger. She blinked hard, then _stared._   The intervening years hadn’t been kind, not in the least, The dark hair was longer, liberally streaked with grey, and under the pale, bloodshot eyes were shadows like bruises.  His face was more lined than it even ought to have been after a decade.  But despite the changes, she still recognized him, still _knew_ him.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the high and mighty Champion of Kirkwall,” he sneered.  “What, haven’t got a hello for your old pal, Samson?”

Ginger untied the gag, but Amelle still found all she could do was gape.  “S-samson?” she asked around her too-dry mouth.  “ _Samson?_ What in all the bloody _Void_ —”

“Don’t make like you don’t know _,_ _Champion_ ,” he spat with derision.

She wanted to toss a pert retort back at him.  _A shame you think so, since I really don’t know what you’re going on about_ , or something akin to it.  Amelle found she could only shake her head slowly and stare.  “I don’t,” she said, her voice so dry it cracked.  “I don’t have the first blighted idea what this is about.  You—the Knight-Captain was going to see you reinstated.  You were going to be a—a templar again.”  She looked again at Samson, noting he wore the same rag-tag armor as the rest.  “What happened?”

“You think that would’ve been the end of it, wouldn’t you?  Maker’s arse, I did.  All the lyrium I could lay my grubby fingers on.  But thing’s’d changed when I went back.  Wasn’t the same under Stannard. Not like it was.  And that bloody blighted _Knight-Captain_ paid too much attention by half.  Then _your boy_ went and sent the Chantry all to bloody rubble—”

Amelle’s head snapped back so quickly she thumped it against the tree trunk.  “Now hang _on._   You know well as I that I fought _alongside_ the templars after that.  Against my conscience, and against my own blighted better judgment, and Stannard _still_ —”

“You weren’t there after!” he snapped.  “You and your lot buggered out of Kirkwall and went and hid like rats.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me some tale of woe wherein you drove yourself mad in the aftermath?” she spat  “Because I’d certainly believe _that._ ”  Amelle narrowed her eyes at him.  “But no, this is nothing to do with tender feelings of duty, is it?  You’re too _angry_ for that.”  She looked hard at his face, at how lined it was, at the heavy shadows under his eyes and drew in a soft, sharp breath.  “You got kicked out ag—”

The slap rang through Amelle’s ears and sent the back of her head against the tree with a slam.  She tasted blood.

“Wouldn’t’ve happened if you hadn’t interfered,” growled Samson.  “Things went to the Void afterward.  They started rationing our lyrium.  Did you know that?  _Rationing_ us.  _Us._ ”

“They drove us to it,” Ginger said.

“Drove you to what?” Amelle asked, looking wildly between them.  “Stealing lyrium?  _Killing_ for it?”

“Among other things,” the woman replied with a shrug.

Several beats of silence passed as Amelle stared up at Samson, and then Ginger.  “You do realize,” she said, “that is quite possibly the _stupidest_ reason to seek revenge I have _ever bloody heard._ ”

Ginger’s booted foot caught her solidly in the stomach, knocking the wind from her and forcing her body to pull forward, straining her aching, throbbing arms as she struggled to double over.  The most she could manage was a hunch, her head dropping forward as she tried, slowly and carefully, to breathe without choking.

“Oh, we aren’t looking for _revenge_ , Hawke.  It’s profit.  Don’t reckon you’ve heard, but it’s quite the fashionable thing these days in Tevinter to own mage slaves.”  He crouched down, leaning his face far, far too close to hers, adding, “Makes sense they’d pay even better for a proper… celebrity.”  He grinned, and it was a horrible, lined thing, showing far too many rotten teeth.  “And they pay,” he said, that grin never wavering, “in lyrium.”

Amelle took in the words, but found herself unable to process them.  Oh, she knew well enough that the Tevinters enslaved their own—that was no surprise.  But this.  _This._   “You’re selling _people_ in exchange for _lyrium?_ ”

Of course they were.  They looted armor and weapons off dead bodies—no need to buy them, then—and sold people to further their addiction.  It made a chilling sort of sense that made Amelle’s skin crawl.

“We figured you’d bring a hefty sum,” Ginger explained.

“I’d make a very poor slave,” Amelle replied.  “Ask anyone.”

“Most mages do,” Samson said, pushing to his feet.  “S’why you’ve got that little bit of jewelry on.  Dragonscale.  The latest thing out of the Imperium.”

Amelle swallowed hard against the pressure around her neck.  “So the collar _does_ drain mana.”

“And your will,” Ginger chimed in, sending Amelle’s blood running cold.  It must have shown on her face, because the woman looked suddenly amused.

“Feel those teeth on the inside of it?” Samson asked.  “Of course you do.  It’s blood what sets off the enchantment. That collar’s not comin’ off, unless it’s a mage takin’ it off of you.  And the longer you wear it, the more… _agreeable_ it’ll make you.”

Amelle’s stomach twisted with rage and fear despite the pain radiating throughout her.  “Then I suppose,” she said, struggling to control the furious tremble in her voice—and it was _fury,_ she told herself over and over again, not _fear,_ not _terror_ — “I should probably do this while I can.”  Breathing in deep, she _spat_ blood and spittle at Samson, hitting his chestplate, where it splattered and dripped in messy smears.  She braced herself for another kick, but it was the back of Samson’s hand that came instead, his knuckles striking her cheekbone so hard her eyes watered with it.  He shot Ginger a look before turning on his heel and striding away.

The next thing Amelle knew, the other woman had pulled the hood down over her head again, leaving her in pain and darkness as the thing around her neck slowly drained her from herself.


	3. Chapter 3

As Fenris continued following the footprints—and eventually wheel-ruts—in the mud, one worry surfaced above all others, pushing him to walk until darkness dictated he stop and rest for a time.

That worry was: _how far ahead are they?_

It took little time for Fenris to figure out where they were headed, once the tracks settled on the main road to Amaranthine.  Though nothing akin to Kirkwall, Amaranthine wasn’t _small_ , by any means, and there were more than enough places to hide a person inside the city walls.  Fenris refused to dwell too closely on the knowledge that ships from all over Thedas and beyond frequented Amaranthine’s port.  However, it was that knowledge that pushed him on, until darkness bade him stop.  

 _Rest, Fenris,_ he could imagine Amelle telling him, as he built himself a small fire in a clearing away from the road.  _You’ll do yourself no favors if you don’t rest._

 _And I will do you no favors if I do,_ he thought at the phantom voice, but acquiesced all the same.  His rest was a short one, but sufficient—or sufficient _enough_ ; stillness and silence gave way to too many troubling thoughts that left him restless—and when he was ready to resume, the clouds had cleared, leaving a broad, silver moon to light his way.

It wasn’t yet dawn when Fenris first caught the scent of woodsmoke on the breeze.  Crouching down in the road, he let the light from his markings flare bright, illuminating the path before him well enough to reveal the shallow tread of a cart’s wheels diverging from the main road, bending and denting the tall grass.

 _Be cautious,_ he reminded himself.  _It might yet be innocent travelers stopping for a rest._

Fenris did not precisely _believe_ this, but was determined to exercise caution until he was certain of the situation, one way or another.  Moving carefully and, above all, _quietly_ , he made his way off the road, following the makeshift path until it the soft murmur of conversation caught his ear.  Behind that was the quiet but familiar clatter of men breaking camp.  The dense trees, still dark in the pre-dawn gloom, hid Fenris, allowing him to creep closer.  Unseen and undetected, he crouched, sharp eyes taking in the scene.

The first thing he saw was a woman with red hair, clad in armor that fit Mirae’s description almost perfectly.  She was deep in conversation with another man, similarly dressed.  More men and women were readying themselves for travel, but Fenris did not stop to count them.  His eye was drawn to a kneeling woman, bound to a tree.  Her head was covered with a dark hood, but that made little difference.  Even if he hadn’t recognized her clothes, he knew _Hawke_ , from the curve of her shoulder to the pale skin along her arms and the bend of her leg.  Blood pounded a furious tattoo in his ears and his hands clenched as if they already gripped the pommel of his blade.  Swallowing the sudden, swamping rage, Fenris took a breath and let it out in a low hiss as he turned to take in the number of his opponents.  Seven— no, eight.  Eight, then.

Moving every bit as silently as a ghost, Fenris circled the camp, where a hay-filled cart provided concealment even closer to his quarry; the donkey hitched to the cart took no notice of him, one ear flicking as it dozed.  Fenris drew his blade slowly, taking care that it made no sound as he pulled it from its sheath, when he heard a snatch of conversation that made him go suddenly rigid, the Blade of Mercy only halfway drawn.

“But how soon are we gonna _see_ any of it, Samson?” the redheaded woman asked.

“The ship’s captain’s promised a tidy sum to hold us over till a sale goes through, Anya,” a strangely and distantly familiar voice replied.  “Thinks he might know of some interested parties.  Then we’ll see the rest.”

“And how long’s _that_ gonna be?” the woman called Anya asked, a thin, wheedling tone creeping into her voice.  “We got her, like you said.  My boys ain’t as understanding as I am.  They’re gonna want their cut.”

“I’ve got enough coin for—”

“To the Void with _coin_ , Samson.  You _know_ what I want.”

“And you’ll _get it,_ ” he replied in a snarl.  “Once the Champion’s sold, there’ll be lyrium enough for us both.”

Samson.  Surely it could not be the same man, could it?  Though he, too, had been addicted to lyrium, as Fenris recalled.  He also recalled Hawke had shown him leniency when he himself would not have bothered doing so.  If the man was truly dealing in slave trade for lyrium, then death was too good an end for him.  If he was dealing in slaves by trying to sell the woman who hadn’t ended his life when she could have, then nothing but death would suffice.

It mattered very little whether it was the same man or not.  He would meet his end, regardless.  Fenris stood, pulling the length of his greatsword free from his back.  “If it’s lyrium  you want,” he said, his voice a low and dangerous growl as the markings upon his skin flared into brightness, “you ought only to have asked.”

As battles went, it did not last long.  Rage overtook Fenris’ bone-deep worry as lyrium fueled his movements; the very substance that made him faster only slowed their own reflexes.  He swung his blade, cleaving an archer in two before ducking a pair of daggers, then thrusting his hand into the chest of the man wielding them.  On and on it went, their hot blood slicking his blade, his armor, splashing up his arms, landing in sticky droplets upon his face and hair.  He tore the heart from an archer with one hand while letting his blade swing out, single-handed, to cut a woman’s head from her shoulders.  The templar, Samson, he ran through with his sword, pinning him to the thick trunk of a tree, spinning in time to see Anya swinging a greatsword at him, her face twisted with wrath as she bellowed a hoarse, enraged shout.  He ducked, darting in close, and grabbed the woman by her throat, light from his markings illuminating her face as the sharp tips of his gauntlets sent deep scores into her neck.

“There is no possible reason you can give me to spare your life,” he gritted out through clenched teeth, and then Fenris _squeezed_ , sending the clawed tips of his gauntlets ever further into the woman’s throat as she gasped and struggled for air, until there was neither air nor life in her body.  He let her body drop, and then turned to the disgraced templar, dark blood coursing from his gut where the blade held him fast against the tree.  “And you can give me even less.”

“Wait— _wait!_ ”  The templar—if indeed he _was_ still a templar anymore—struggled against the blade, and then cried out in pain.

“Do you believe you can convince me to be merciful?” Fenris asked, his lip curling as one glowing, armored hand rested above Samson’s heart.

“I could’ve had them take the girl!” he shouted.  “They left the girl alone—she’d’ve caught a hefty sum.  _We left the little girl alone._ ”

The idea that this was meant to be any sort of consolation only served to infuriate Fenris, as he thought of Mirae, so terrified for her mother, tears spilling from green eyes.  The memory of her sobs deepened his ache, his _anger._   “You truly think by telling me you opted _not_ to attempt to sell _my daughter_ to slavers that I might be convinced to _show you mercy_?”

The dying man blinked at the word _daughter._   _He did not know_ , Fenris realized.  Narrowing his eyes, he leaned in close to the dying man.

“You took my wife against her will _to sell her,_ ” he spat.  “You terrified our child.  I see no reason to grant you mercy.”  Lyrium flared brighter as he ruthlessly slammed his fist into Samson’s chest.  “At least you will have got your precious lyrium, one way or another.”  

The man’s heart gave with a sudden lurch as it gave way in Fenris’ hand, like overripe fruit.

Yanking the sword free from the tree and sending Samson’s body tumbling to the forest floor, Fenris flicked the blood from his fingers and sheathed his blade as he stalked to the bound, hooded figure.  Something twisted in his stomach when he realized the head was bowed; there was no indication whatsoever she’d heard anything, or even knew he was there.  Dropping to his knees, he pulled the brown burlap hood free, and stared.

He’d never seen Amelle’s face mottled with bruises before.  She’d been struck a number of times—there were viciously purple bruises around her eye and along one cheekbone, where the discolored skin was marred with shallow cuts.  Her lip was swollen and split.  A thin trickle of blood trailed down her chin.  Never in his life had he seen this, and he realized it was because she had always healed herself before blood had time to clot, before bruises had time to form.

Why, then, had she not healed herself?  For as long as he’d known her, back when she’d only been _Hawke_ to him, she had always healed herself after an altercation.  Why not now?

“Fenris,” she said, finally lifting her eyes to meet his. They were strangely vacant, nothing at all like _her_ eyes in the least, and a cold tendril, like a ribbon of ice, unfurled in the deepest part of him as she tilted her head and sent him a faint, absent smile.  “You came.”

“Of course I did,” he replied roughly, pulling a dagger from his belt to cut the ropes at her wrist and the length lashing her to the tree.  She sighed a little in evident relief and flexed her fingers slowly, looking with detached fascination at the raw lines marking her wrists.  Her ankles were still shackled, and after a brief search of Anya’s body, he found the key and was soon freeing the last of her bindings.  

“Mirae… Mirae made it home safely,” he told her, watching as she rubbed her hands together.

“Good.”

Fenris tossed the length of chain aside, not quite able to fight his growing unease that something was deeply wrong.  “I left as soon as I…”  He trailed off, biting down hard on his lip, touching her unmarred cheek gently, twice as careful of his gauntlet’s sharp edges.  “Amelle.  Are you… hurt?”

“I… _am_ hurt,” she said quietly, with faint wonder, as if she’d never managed to ruminate on the matter before.  

Fenris swallowed hard.  “Why did you not heal yourself?”

“I can’t do that.”  A strange, struggling pause.  “I’m sorry, Fenris.  I can’t.”

“Why?”  His throat was dry, so dry.  What had they done to her?  Oh, the possibilities hovered, circling his mind like vultures.  There was nothing in her eyes—and if she had truly been cut off from her magic… 

No.  _No._ Surely not— _surely not._

Amelle met his eyes with that eerie, placid gaze, and brushed her fingertips over a band of rosy red metal encircling her neck.  Thin trickles of of dried blood reached down Amelle neck like claws.  “This,” she said evenly.  

Tilting her head back gently, oh, so gently, Fenris examined the collar.  It was, he realized with sickening dread, emblazoned with Arcanum.  When he brushed his thumb across the latch, the lyrium in his skin prickled unpleasantly—enchanted, then.  Frowning, he tried again to snap the latch free, but it was anchored in place, smooth and seamless against the collar.

“This… this has cut you off from your magic,” he breathed.

“Yes,” she replied softly.  “It drains mana and…”  She clenched her eyes tightly shut, gritting her teeth.  When she spoke again, a ghost of her old tone flickered in her voice like a shadow. “Samson said it would drain my will.  To make me… malleable.”

_I did not make them suffer enough._

“You can’t remove it.”  She paused.  “Only another mage can… can take it off.”

A collar.  A _collar._   A collar had been placed upon her neck.  Fenris knew too well no magister would have tolerated such a powerful mage as a slave; the collar itself did not surprise him.  But that someone had _dared_ put it around _this woman’s neck_ infuriated him more than he could begin to say.  “We will find a way,” he said, slipping an arm around Amelle, gently pulling her to her feet.  She made a move as if to stand under her own power, but she let out a sharp cry, clutching at him.

“Amelle?”

“My ankle,” she explained, panting. “I broke it.  I was running—I broke it.  And my— _Andraste’s ass_ , my ribs, they…”  She stayed like that a few moments, one hand gripping him, her other arm clutched around her stomach; Amelle breathed hard, her head resting against his shoulder, before she murmured, “Oh, that’s interesting.”

“What is?” Fenris asked, slipping one arm beneath her knees and picking her up.

“Maker,” she gasped, “some warning would be nice, Fenris.  No, I think… just now, when I tried stepping down on my foot.  Pain, I think… the pain cleared my mind a bit.  Doesn’t feel so much like there’s… cotton wool in my skull.”

That, if nothing else, was enough to instill a modicum of hope in him as he carried her to the hay-cart.  “Your brother is at home with the children.  Between the three of us, we… should be able to figure something out.”

“I should hope so.  I keep waiting for the day when Carver being a templar might actually bring me an iota of _benefit._ Oh—no, Fenris, I’d rather sit up front than in the back.”

He frowned.  “Would it not be wiser for you to remain off that ankle?”

She grimaced.  “Perhaps, but… well, I made the trip here in the back.  Plus, if I’m right about pain being the key to managing this blighted _thing_ ,” she reached up and flicked an annoyed fingernail against the metal band, “I’d rather be in a position where I can… create pain.”

The prospect did not please him, but he helped Amelle sit up at the front of the cart before going around to the other side and leaping up to sit next to her.

“Fenris?”  

When he turned to face her, she brought her palms up, cradling his face, her thumbs stroking slow paths across his cheekbones.  “While I’m still—before _this_ … goes away, I…”  Amelle leaned close, pressing a light, chaste kiss across his lips.  “I knew you were coming.  I’m only sorry we didn’t get to kick their collective backsides together.”

“You left… a considerable trail for me to follow,” he replied quietly.

She kissed him again.  “I’m quite helpful that way.”

He suddenly remembered the weight of the ring still stowed in his pocket, pressing against him, and Fenris pulled it out, showing it to her.  Amelle’s smile was sudden and relieved, her eyes bright with tears that gathered at the corners, though never quite spilling.

“Thank the Maker that merchant was honest,” she said shakily as he slid the ring back onto her finger.

“I think you made an impression.”

“I do try.”

#

She was the best friend he had ever known, and Fenris was forced to watch Amelle Hawke lose herself by inches.  With every mile that put them too slowly closer to Highever, he watched, helpless to do anything but _hurry._ The beast pulling the cart was still moving only marginally faster than he’d have been able to carry her, but that was a small consolation.

“It’s like trying to swim through a current that’s too strong,” she said softly, staring straight ahead.

As Amelle had said, pain kept her mind clear, beat back the insidious fog that crept in around her on all sides, that smoothed out the lines of worry on her face into empty deference.  Then she’d shift in her seat, pressing weight on her broken ankle or, more subtly, pinch herself on the tender skin just inside her elbow.  And then the blankness would disappear for a time and _his_ Hawke would return.

But Fenris noticed these moment of clarity were growing shorter.  And Highever was _still_ too far away.

“Carver,” she said suddenly, fingertips soothing a reddened patch along the pale skin of her forearm.  “He’ll have to know something we can do—or at least have _suggestions._   What good is having a templar in the family if he can’t break some horrific Tevinter enchantment?”

Fenris thought much the same thing, and said so.

“A fine time for Merrill to decide she wants to play pirate with Isabela,” she muttered, and though Fenris heard Amelle trying to sound annoyed, her own uncertainty made her voice strain and crack, and from between those cracks, fear shone through.

“Amelle…”

“I’m scared, Fenris” she blurted.  “I’m bloody terrified.  I can… I can _feel_ it pressing in on me.  When you… when you showed up—I heard you, you know.  When I heard your voice, heard the fight, I couldn’t muster anything but this… this vague sort of _acknowledgement_ you were there.  I was… glad, I suppose, but it was so… mild.”  She made a disgusted noise, deep in her throat and shook her head.  “You’re _glad_ when bread rises properly, or if the children go outside to play and manage _not_ to come back inside covered in half the wood.  But  you were there, and—and—”  Her lips trembled and she swore, dashing the tears away before they spilled.  “My husband was rescuing me from slave traders and the most I could muster was ‘Oh, Fenris is here. Isn’t that nice?’”  She swiped at her face again.  “And I know—I know I’d have left with anybody.  I’d have gotten on that boat and—and I wouldn’t have _fought it._   That’s the worst part.  I’d have just left.  And now I’m sitting here, and Maker, poor Mirae must have been so afraid—”

“She did well,” he assured her.  “Yes, she was afraid, but as you have shown me countless times through the years that true strength, true courage is to be found when you act in spite of your fear.”

She snorted a humorless breath of laughter.  “I said that?”

“Not in so many words, but it has been your example for as long as I’ve known you.”

“And that’s been a fair few years by now,” she observed softly. After a few seconds of silence, she added, “Mirae is growing up so fast, isn’t she? They all are.”

“Surely this cannot be a surprise.”

“In a lot of ways it is.  The last thing I suspected when I laid eyes on you—Maker, was it almost twenty years ago?  That can’t be right.”

Fenris knew how she felt; he often felt the same way.

“The _last_ thing I expected,” she went on, “was… was, was any of this. Mirae’s stubborn chin, Kynne’s solemn eyes, Arlyn’s dimples.  I didn’t expect…”

Amelle trailed off into silence.  From the corner of his eye, Fenris saw a frown crease her brow before she pressed weight down on her ankle and trembling fingers pinched hard at her forearm.  Highever’s wall had just pricked the horizon.

“Amelle?”

“It’s not working anymore, Fenris,” she whispered.  “It’s not working.”

The beast’s speed as they made their way resolutely toward Highever felt too like standing still.  Fenris’ mind raced to contrive a plan that would bring them home sooner.  He wondered, even, if he might travel faster on foot.  Surely he could carry her the final distance to their home.  _Surely_ it would be faster.  So lost in his rushing thoughts was he, Fenris startled when Amelle laid her hand on his arm, the warm skin just above his gauntlets.

“No matter what this takes from me, Fenris.  No matter what it _does_ , I know you.  You’ll find a way.  You’ll get it off.”

“I will,” he said, meeting her gaze steadily.  “I swear it.”

“I know.”  She smiled, but there was sadness woven throughout.  “It’s one of the reasons I love you.”

They abandoned the hay cart at the very gate he’d followed the tracks from and Fenris lifted Amelle into his arms.  It would be faster if he only had himself to urge on.  He would carry her home.

How strange that _home_ had always seemed such a distant and unlikely concept before meeting Hawke.  Now it was a beacon, it was his haven, and he could not help but believe if he could simply get her _home_ , this would come to an end.  But that didn’t stop him from noticing the way her fingers slowly stopped gripping his shoulders so surely.  When her head lolled forward, he knew better than to assume it was affection that made her rest her head against him so.  She was slipping away from him, further and further, with every mile they covered.

Amelle was every bit as still as any doll by the time he saw the silhouette of their home, a thin stream of smoke issuing from the chimney.  The door opened, as he’d feared it would, and Carver stood in the doorway; he gestured behind him—keeping the children from hurtling out to meet them, most likely—and then started down the hillside himself.  Fenris wondered if the sight of his sister injured was every bit as foreign to Carver as it was to him.

“You did it—Maker’s breath you—“  He words came to a sudden stop the moment he saw his sister’s face.  “What in all the Void happened?  Where did you find her?”Carver asked.  “Where was she?”

“Halfway to Amaranthine,” he answered in an undertone.

“And who—”

“Slave traders,” he answered brusquely.  “Disgraced templars.  They’d have sold her for _lyrium_.  They are no more.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Carver said, then swore fiercely, reaching out to brush a lock of sweaty hair away from his sister’s forehead.  It was then he noticed the band around her neck.  “What’s this?” he asked, running a fingertip against the metal and jerking back.  “It feels—”

“It is no matter easily explained.  We must go inside.”  He looked up at the house to spy Mirae, Kynne, and Arlyn standing by the door, watching him with wide, frightened eyes.  “Tell the children their mother is… unwell and needs rest.  I… will explain what I can to them later.”

An hour later, Fenris had washed the blood from Amelle’s face, tended what injuries he could, and changed her into a plain, soft nightgown.  She had assisted him, but with a yielding sort of obedience that made Fenris not _wish_ for that help.  

“You must rest,” he told her, once she was settled.  “I will call for your brother.”

“Yes, Fenris,” she replied, settling back against the pillows, and it sickened him to hear just how much _Fenris_ sounded like _master_ to his ears just then.

When Carver came into the room, Fenris closed the door, and sat—did not _collapse,_ but _sat_ —upon a chair pulled up next to her bedside.  The dragonscale band was red against her skin.  

Carver settled lightly on the edge of the bed.  “How’re you feeling, sister?”

“I feel sore, Carver,” she answered honestly.  “But I am glad to be home.”

 _You’re_ glad _when bread rises properly, or if the children go outside to play and manage not to come back inside covered in half the wood._   Fenris struggled not to flinch.  “The nature of the collar is magical,” he said dully as he went on to explain what little he knew for certain, and some of what he _suspected_ about the band.

“If blood activates the enchantment, then it’s constantly engaged,” Carver said slowly, frowning.  “Powerful stuff.  Nasty, too.”

“Can you not dispel it?”

He looked dubious. “I can certainly _try._ ”

But when Carver placed his hands over the collar, and pale white tendrils of light pulsed forward, sinking into the enchanted metal, Amelle’s eyes shot open as she sucked in a sharp breath.  Carver pulled back at once, but Amelle was already _screaming_ , eyes shut tight in agony as her back arched off the bed and she clawed at the collar.

“ _No!_ ” she cried hoarsely, trying to work her fingers beneath the band as she thrashed, legs tangling in the sheets.  Amelle stared at him, with eyes wide and terrified, _pleading_ with him, “No, Maker, no, _it_ hurts— _it’s burn—burning!_   No, please— _please_ , stop—make it stop, I can’t— _please make it stop_ , please, I’ll do anything, _anything,_ _please_ —”  

The cloth and cool water Fenris had used to clean the dirt and dried blood from Amelle’s face were nearby; he reached out, nearly knocking the basin over in his haste, and snatched the wet cloth, pressing it against the metal, and was horrified to discover _he_ could feel heat through the rag.  He bowed his head, whispering apologies he was sure Amelle couldn’t hear above her own broken sobbing.

She’d had said only a mage could remove the collar.  It had been folly to think for a moment that anything less might possibly suffice on such dark magic crafted by magisters for the sole purpose of keeping another mage under control.

“Find her a mage, Carver,” Fenris told his brother in-law.  “I don’t care if you have to drag Anders himself out of whatever pit he’s disappeared into, _find your sister a mage._ ”

“You think I can just walk into any of the remaining Circles and ask for a mage?” Carver shook his head.  “It’s not the same days as when the Hero waltzed in and demanded help against the Blight.  Even our ranks aren’t what they were.  If they were, there wouldn’t be so bloody many templars turning mercenary.  But if I were to try and bring a mage to help another mage—an _apostate_ …”

“Then find an apostate,” Fenris snapped, the last of his patience dwindling.  “I do not _care_ where you find one, or what methods you employ to do so.  I do not care if you seek out the Witch of the Wilds herself.  _Find one._ ”  

The other man’s jaw tightened, eyes flashing with helpless anger.  “All right.  I’ll do what I can—I’ve a few people I can write to that might be able to help.  Knight-Commander’s probably got a few ideas he won’t mind sharing. We’ll get it off of her one way or another.”

Fenris hoped Carver was right.  More than that, he hoped they weren’t too late.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been two weeks since Papa brought Mama home, sick.  The day after he brought her, Uncle Carver had gone into town and brought back a healer to see to Mama’s ankle, which Papa said she hurt in a fall.  The healer was a kind, older woman who smelled faintly of wildflowers and elfroot; Mirae liked her well enough, for all that she didn’t understand why her _Mama_ needed a _healer_ in the first place.

The healer—Miss Rinna—had said Mama needed rest.  She needed to rest and stay off her ankle for a few weeks.  While this seemed… reasonable to Mirae—she wanted her mother to _get better_ —it was all so… _strange_.

What else was strange was how Mama was acting. Papa had been reluctant to let Mirae and her siblings visit with her, and it wasn’t until they _did_ that Mirae saw why.  It wasn’t the bruises on her face, though Arlyn cried a little when she saw the blood, or even how purple and yellow and swollen Mama’s face was, and it wasn’t her foot all bandaged and propped up on pillows.

It was her eyes.  Something was wrong with Mama’s eyes.  They didn’t laugh like they used to.  She didn’t look stern or sad anymore.  She didn’t look _anything._

And even more strangely, Mama didn’t say “no” anymore.  

To anyone, ever.  

Mirae helped Papa with breakfast in the mornings; he was getting better at finding things in the kitchen, but she still liked to help.  Sometimes he looked so… lost, so sad, and it worried her; her papa had never looked that way before.  So she helped.  And sometimes, when she did, he smiled, and though it didn’t make everything better, it _helped._

She was just slathering Mama’s toast with butter and honey when Papa set a mug of steaming tea down next to the plate.

“Do you want me to bring it upstairs?” she asked.  Sometimes he preferred doing it himself.  Today, however, Papa looked away and nodded.  She took the plate and mug and began carrying it away from the table, when Papa’s voice stopped her.

“Mirae.”

She turned to find him seated, as if he didn’t have the energy to stand any more.  His elbows rested on his knees and he was watching her with such… _sad_ eyes that she almost wasn’t sure she wanted to know what else he had to tell her.

“Yes, Papa?”

“Thank you.”

She blinked, tilting her head.  When he saw her confusion, he glanced down at his hands, and then up again.  “You have been a very great help.  I know it, and I am certain your mother knows it as well.”

Mirae looked down at the toast and tea, not sure what to say, but certain of what she ought not to say: Mama didn’t notice anything anymore.

“Summerday’s almost here,” she said finally, not quite able to bring her voice above a whisper.  Mama’s favorite holiday.  Mirae’s nameday was only three days after Summerday.  She was going to be eleven.  She wanted to know if Mama would be better by her nameday, but didn’t dare ask.  Papa didn’t know—none of them did.

_When will I be old enough to walk to town on my own, Mama?_

“I know,” he said.

She didn’t know what else to say to that, because Summerday and her nameday were both so, so very _unimportant_ right now, it seemed, and she could never remember a time when they’d seemed _less_ important.

“I thought I could… pick some flowers for her,” Mirae said, looking down into the teacup.  She did not mention how unlikely it was Mama would be picking flowers with her this Summerday, or weaving daisies into flower-crowns.  She had a feeling he already knew the answer to that.

“She would like that, I’m sure.”

Neither of them mentioned her nameday, and Mirae turned before Papa could see the tears pricking her eyes.  Slow, steady steps—she was very careful not to spill the tea—took her upstairs, where she heard Mama’s voice floating out into the hallway.  Mirae stopped, cocking her head and listening.  When she gently pushed open the door to Mama and Papa’s room, she found Arlyn, curled up on the bed with their mother, smiling drowsily as Mama read to her.

“You’re s’posed to pat my head when you read to me, Mama.”

“Yes, Arlyn.”  And, just like that, Mama’s hand raised, and began petting Arlyn’s wispy brown curls.

The sight itself wasn’t odd—Mama frequently read to Arlyn, and often ran her fingers through her hair as she did—but the stiff way she did it… _that_ was odd.  It was also strange how hoarse Mama’s voice sounded, almost as if…

Walking around the bed to set the tea and toast on the bedside table, Mirae found a stack of no fewer than ten books, already read and discarded.

Setting the food down, Mirae whirled around to glare at her sister.  _“Arlyn!”_

Arlyn blinked sleepy green eyes back at her.  “What?”

“Did you have Mama read _all those books?_ ” she asked, pointing down at the pile.

Arlyn crawled over their mother and peered down.  “Yeah,” she answered, scowling up at Mirae.  “I _asked_ her an’ she said yes.”

She felt her eyes go huge, and Mirae was suddenly blindly, overwhelmingly _angry_ with her younger sister. “Mama’s never read ten books in a row to you in your _whole life!_ ”

 _She doesn’t know any better, Mimi,_ she could almost hear Mama telling her _.  Don’t be so angry with her; she doesn’t understand._

That didn’t help much; Mirae didn’t understand either.  She didn’t understand how Mama could be gone for one day and come back and have her magic gone and everything different and all she really wanted right now was for Mama to scold her, to tell her that no, she couldn’t walk to town by herself, or no, it was too early in the season to go swimming in the lake, or for her to say something like, _For the Maker’s sake, Mirae Hawke, no, I will not heat up the lake so you can swim in it. You can wait for the sun to warm the water like everybody else._

Arlyn, however, was still _glaring_ at her sister, as if this somehow were all _her_ fault.  “I asked,” she said again, stubbornly.  “Didn’t I, Mama?”

“Arlyn did ask if I would read to her, Mirae,” Mama replied mildly.  From behind their mother, Arlyn stuck her tongue out.

Mirae’s jaw began to ache and her head began to throb when she suddenly realized she’d been gritting her teeth and grinding them.  “You,” she said, narrowing her eyes at her sister and enunciating every word as clearly as she could through clenched teeth, “are a _brat._   You’re a selfish, hateful _brat._   And when Uncle comes back from town, I am _telling him what you did._ ”  She would not tell Papa, she would _not._   Not when he looked so lost and tired and _hurt_ all the time. Not when he sat hunched over at the kitchen table late at night, after everyone was supposed to have gone to bed, hands cradling his head, fingers clawing through his hair, shoulders rounded in defeat.

Arlyn’s eyes went wide.  “ _Tattle-tale,_ ” she breathed in horrified disgust.

But Mirae went on as if her sister hadn’t spoken.  “And then he will _never ever_ teach you how to use a sword.  And he’ll tell Papa.  And then _nobody_ will let you use one.  Ever.  Because you are a hateful, selfish, _greedy brat._ ”

“I’m telling _Papa_ you said that.”

“Mimi’s right,” another voice said.  Mirae startled and whirled to find Kynne, his wild thatch of impossibly red curls wind-tangled.  “Papa didn’t want us asking Mama for stuff.”

“But she doesn’t _do_ anything anymore,” Arlyn whined.  “She’s not like Mama at _all._ ”

Mirae and Kynne exchanged a look, and her brother sighed, scratching absently at one ear.  “Come on, Lynnie.  I still gotta feed the chickens.  Come help.”

This suggestion didn’t please Arlyn in the least, and her scowl showed it.  But when she opened her mouth to argue, Arlyn saw something in Mirae’s face that silenced her.  Huffing a little, she slid from Mama’s bed, and once both feet hit the floor, stomped out with Kynne to go feed chickens.  Mirae closed the door with a quiet click, and rested her forehead against the wood.  She kept her eyes closed, but tears still burned behind the lids and her heart pounded with every ragged breath.

Mama’s voice came from behind her.  “I am sorry, Mirae.  It wasn’t my intent to get Arlyn in trouble.  Please, don’t be angry.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered against the door.  “It’s okay, Mama.”  It wasn’t okay.  It was miles from okay.  But she didn’t want to upset her mother, because then Papa would get upset, and Papa was already so terribly upset all the time anyway—she didn’t want to add to it.  Pushing away from the door and using her sleeve to rub hard at her eyes, Mirae turned to face her mother.  There was a lump in her throat that took several attempts to swallow away before she could speak.  “Papa and I made you toast and tea.  It’s… it’s wildflower honey.”

Mama smiled and Mirae hated it, and then felt a flush of guilt for hating it.  But it wasn’t _her smile._   “Thank you. Wildflower honey is my favorite.”

“Papa knows,” she said quietly.  She bit her lip hard, and then more tears formed.  Mirae sniffled impatiently and knuckled the tears away as she took a few hesitant steps closer to the bed.  “Mama?”

Her mother cradled the mug of tea between her hands and took a tiny sip.  “Yes?”

“I miss you,” she managed, her throat closing.

Mama tilted her head, confused.  “I’ve been right here, Mirae.”

 _No, you haven’t_ , she wanted to say, but instead she nodded, forcing back the tears—she didn’t want to cry in front of Mama, because she knew Mama wouldn’t open her arms and say, _Oh, none of that now.  Things can’t be that dire, can they?_   She wouldn’t hug her and kiss the crown of her head and stroke her back, or pull Mirae onto her lap to watch while she spun tiny squares of frost latticework between her fingers.  Swallowing down her disappointment, Mirae bent to pick up the books Mama had been reading to Arlyn.  

And then, feeling foolish, she set the books at the foot of the bed, looking down at her feet, only peeking at her mother through the thick fall of her hair.  “Mama?”

“Yes, Mirae?”

The question came out in a choked, reedy whisper.  “Can I hug you?”

“Yes, you may, Mirae,” she answered, setting down the mug.  

Scrambling onto the bed she fairly launched herself at her mother, wrapping her arms tight around her neck, trying so hard—so very hard—not to cry, but it was difficult.  When she didn’t have to see Mama’s face or hear her voice, Mirae could almost forget how different she was now.  Her hug wasn’t quite the same, but she still _smelled_ of Mama, and as to the rest, Mirae could close her eyes and pretend for a moment all was as it ought to have been.

Resting her head against her mother’s shoulder, Mirae frowned, running a finger across the metal collar around Mama’s neck.  The skin above and below the metal was red and scaly now, and looked as if it were uncomfortably itchy.  Dried blood lined the bottom of the collar and Mirae winced as she imagined how many teeth were sunk into her mother’s neck at that moment.

“Does it hurt, Mama?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” came the mild, honest answer, spoken just as softly.

#

Summerday came, and with it came Knight-Commander Cullen.  Uncle had written to him a number of times after Papa brought Mama home, asking for help with the thing around her neck, but nothing seemed to work.  Some of the things they tried wound up hurting her _more,_ until finally Papa said “no more.”

Today Ser Cullen arrived with a heavy leather trunk full of books and scrolls.  Arlyn was nowhere to be had—she’d been giving Mirae a very wide berth every day since the incident in Mama’s room—but Kynne stood next to the case as Ser Cullen opened it, eyes going wide at the sight of all the books.

“You look as if you’ve got a potential scholar in the family,” he observed with a smile.

Mirae knew, because her mother had said so often enough, that Kynne’s reading habits reminded her of Papa, and that when they lived in Kirkwall, a long time ago, before the chantry fell—that was how she always put it, “before the chantry fell,” and it always conjured the strangest images in Mirae’s head, like a chantry tumbling off a shelf and breaking into a hundred thousand pieces—that she could often find Papa in her library, his nose in a book.  And if Papa were anywhere nearby, he would roll his eyes and snort and accuse her of not telling the story in its entirety.  And Mama would grin and say, “No, I’m just telling the best parts.”

This time, no one said any of that.  Kynne just flushed his pleasure and mumbled “Thank you” up at the tall templar.  Uncle and Ser Cullen settled at the little table in the kitchen, dozens of scrolls and books between them.

“Some of these are Tevinter texts, Fenris,” said Ser Cullen.  “In the original Arcanum.”  He grimaced, adding, “Which I am the furthest thing from fluent in.”

Papa frowned—he frowned a lot lately, but this was his thoughtful frown, as opposed to his upset or worried frown—and looked at the books.  “I cannot promise to be very much assistance, but I will help in any way I possibly can.”

But before he could set down and join Uncle Carver and Ser Cullen, Mirae slipped up to his side, tugging hesitantly at his sleeve.  “Papa?” she whispered.  He looked down at her, brows twitching together before arching one of them at her.

“Yes?”

Mirae bit her lip.  She knew what she wanted to ask, and yet she still feared asking it.  Not because she thought her father would be angry, but because she hated asking _anything_ of him these days.  “Papa,” she said again, “do you think… do you think you could bring Mama downstairs so we can sit outside?  I have… I picked flowers.”  She looked down at her hands, the way her fingers worried and plucked at each other.  Then Papa’s hand, bigger than hers and rough with calluses, closed over both of hers, stilling her fingers.  “We always… we always sit outside on Summerday,” she said, staring at the white lines that danced across his knuckles.

“I know,” her father replied, then sighed.  “I imagine it might do her good to be outside for a time.  It isn’t the same, keeping the windows open.”

“Do you want me to take out a chair for her?”  Papa nodded once and started upstairs, and Mirae dragged one of the chairs away from the kitchen table.

Uncle Carver looked up from a particularly dusty scroll.  “Need any help, Mimi?”  But Mirae shook her head and dragged the chair outside, settling it on a bit of even earth.  Kynne came out behind her, clutching a cushion to his chest, and placed it very carefully on the chair.

“So her bum doesn’t fall asleep,” he said quietly, kicking at the ground.  “My bum always falls asleep in that one.”

There was a scraping sound behind them, and both Mirae and Kynne turned around to spy Arlyn trying to drag a footstool out the front door.  She stopped suddenly, upon realizing her brother and sister were watching her.  When Arlyn looked at Mirae, she flushed pink to the tips of her ears and looked away.

“She needs something for her foot,” she mumbled.  “’S still broken.”

Sending Mirae a meaningful look— _she’s trying,_ his eyes said—Kynne went over to help their sister with the little footstool, carrying it over to where they’d set the chair.

Not long after, their father came through the front door, carrying Mama, her foot and ankle still tightly bandaged.  Mirae tried not to look too closely at her face; it was easier if you didn’t look _too_ closely at her.  He set her in the chair and Kynne and Arlyn helped situate Mama’s foot on the stool’s red cushion.  Then, pressing a kiss to Mama’s hair, he looked at the three of them.

“Watch over your mother.”

“Yes, Papa,” they all chorused as one.

There wasn’t anything particularly unique about sitting outside on Summerday night.  Every other year they’d gone into town for the festivals and Mirae had got flowers wound all through her hair, and once they came back from town, the five of them settled upon the soft grassy hill.  Mama drank wine with Papa while she and Mirae wove long chains of flowers until the fireflies came out.

They hadn’t gone into town this year, but maybe at least they could stay up and wait for the fireflies.

By the time the first gentle flickers of green-gold lights showed themselves, Mirae had made enough daisy crowns for Arlyn, Kynne, herself, and Mama.  And though she knew she wasn’t supposed to, to say nothing of the fact that she was getting far too old for it, after settling the crown on Mama’s head, she tipped her head to her mother’s ear and whispered, “May I sit in your lap, please?”

“Yes, Mirae,” she replied.  

But as Mirae scrambled into her mother’s lap, she could not help but think about all the things her mother _would_ have said.  She would have acted put-upon first, and the very moment Mirae started to turn away, Mama would have grabbed her wrist and pulled her bodily up into her lap, tickling her until she squealed.  She thought about these things instead, as she climbed up and settled herself against her mother.

“Mama?” Kynne asked, his voice soft enough that it nearly blended in with the lengthening dusk.  “Can I come too?”

“Yes, Kynne.”

And then little Arlyn, who eyed Mirae warily in the dark, piped up, “Can I too?”

“Yes, Arlyn.”

And as Arlyn scrambled to sit on Mama’s knee, she squished against Mirae, who sighed a little in annoyance at Arlyn’s bony elbow poking her in the side, but rested her head on Mama’s shoulder.  It was dark enough she could almost pretend Mama wasn’t sick.  That she was normal and this was just another Summerday.

She wondered if Mama would ever get better.

Frowning a little, Mirae ran her fingertip along the metal band’s smooth surface.  A faint tingle tickled the pads of her fingers and she drew back, then leaned closer, frowning at the collar in the dark.  There were words carved into it, but Mirae had never asked what they meant, and Papa didn’t seem to want to talk about it.  She wondered for what wasn’t the first time what kind of words someone would put on something like this.  Something that couldn’t ever be taken off.  Something that stole away the best parts of you.  With a sigh, she ran her thumb across the front of the band.  It tingled again.

Then her thumbnail caught on something.  

That had never happened before.  It had always been impossibly _smooth_ before.  There’d been no… where was it?  Holding her breath, Mirae dragged her fingers across the collar again, her eyes straining in the dim light to see where her thumbnail had snagged.

It happened again.  There.  There it was.  Right _there._

Biting down hard on her lower lip, Mirae scraped and scratched at the tiny latch.  It felt as if it were hardly coming away from the metal at all—she pried it upward, and it came slowly, like a single scale coming off the back of a snake.  Up and up and up, until something _snapped._   It wasn’t something she _heard,_ but rather something she felt, like the crack of a bough snapping off a tree in a storm, except she was the tree and she felt that crack down to her toes.

Suddenly, and with a rush of hot, foul-smelling air, the collar sprung open.  The sudden, metallic _snap_ of it was enough to startle the children into scattering from their mother’s lap, but then Mama buckled forward, both hands to her neck, and let out a sharp, broken cry.  She slid from her chair and tumbled to the grass, landing on her knees and bracing herself with one hand, the other pressed against her bleeding throat, gasping for air.

“Papa!” Mirae called, then she drew in a breath and _screamed.  “Papa!”_

Whether it was Mama’s cry or Mirae’s own that he’d heard, the door swung open and he, Uncle Carver, and Ser Cullen came charging out.

“What happened?” Papa demanded, crouching down, preparatory to picking Mama up again.  “What’s wrong?”

“Fenris,” Mama rasped.  

That was all she said.  His name.  Papa went perfectly still at the sound.

“Amelle?” he managed, his voice breaking as he said Mama’s name, tilting her head back to see her face.

“It’s off,” she managed, coughing.  “It’s _off_.”

“So it is,” Ser Cullen murmured, crouching down to pick up the broken metal band.  Bloody teeth lined the inside of the collar, glistening evilly in the half light.  “How did you manage that, Hawke?”

“I’m very nearly certain I don’t know,” Mama said, her voice ragged but _right,_ “and you’ll forgive me if I don’t give a bloody damn either, Knight-Commander, ser.”

Silence settled around them, lasting barely a second or two before Papa scooped Mama up and carried her inside.  Mirae ran after them, fairly pushing past Uncle Carver to get through the door next.  But what she saw when she charged into the little sitting room made Mirae wish she’d waited outside.

Papa was sat on the sofa, as if he’d simply dropped there with Mama in his arms, her legs draped across his.  His head was bowed, resting against hers, and his shoulders shook with fine tremors.  Though her neck was bleeding, neither of them seemed to notice or care; Mama’s arms were tight around him, her hands carding through his hair, rubbing soothingly at his back as she whispered to him.

“I thought I’d lost you,” her father—her brave, solemn Papa said, in a voice that quavered in a way she’d never heard from him before.  “I thought I’d failed you.”

“Never,” Mama whispered, pressing gentle kisses against his forehead, his closed eyes, either cheek, and, finally, his lips.

Suddenly Uncle Carver’s hand was on her shoulder, and he was gently pulling her back into the kitchen.  

“Best give them a minute, Mimi.” 

#

Neither Carver nor Cullen asked _how_ the collar came off.  Amelle was certain they both wanted to know, but she was just as certain that they realized they did not _need_ to know, because with that particular brand of knowledge came difficult choices, and they’d all been faced with far, far more than their fair share of difficult choices over the years to willingly invite more.  Of course Carver and Cullen were both perfectly aware of what it _meant_.  When there is something that will only respond to a mage’s touch, and it has responded, it only makes sense that a mage was around to touch it.

But they didn’t _need_ to know.  And by the time they both left for Amaranthine (primarily because Carver, the well-meaning idiot, nearly got himself blasted into the next Age by being stiflingly solicitous), both men were perfectly aware there were things they’d not been told.  Carver was family; he’d figure it out eventually.  Cullen, however, knew who on the Maker’s earth he wanted as an ally, and who he absolutely did not want as an enemy.

So all was quiet again, but a different sort of quiet than it had been in the weeks leading up to now.  It was the sort of quiet made up of the normal daily chores, leading to lazy, sun-soaked afternoons spent sprawled in tall, soft grass, Fenris’ hand clasping hers, as they watched clouds move across the sky, listening to the children play, argue, and then slide back into play again.

“At least she had a better first showing than I did,” Amelle murmured, running her thumb along the ridge of Fenris’ knuckles.  She let out a mournful, embarrassed sigh.  “ _So_ much inappropriate fire.”

“No matter her ‘first showing,’” Fenris said, rolling onto one elbow and looking down at her, “I am thankful it happened at all.”

“It’s a sad day when a pair of templars can’t scare up a _single_ apostate in the whole bloody—”

“Amelle.”

She sighed.  Despite having healed herself, there remained a thin mark around her neck that wasn't quite a scar. Residue from the dark magic, perhaps.  “You aren’t ready for me to make light of it.”

“I doubt I will ever be ready for you to make light of it.”  He fixed her with a solemn gaze.  “I thought you were gone.  I had no reason to believe you might return to yourself even after the collar was removed.”

A hundred smart retorts hovered in her chest, but she let them melt away, instead pushing herself up onto her own elbow and smiling at Fenris.  He did not quite return her smile, but he seldom did.  The look he did give her, however, was warm and welcoming, and more than enough to make her heart thump hard against her ribs, even after so many years.  “I’d always come back to you,” she said, pressing a kiss to his lips, and then lying back on the grass, curling against him.  “Never doubt that.”

Silence passed between them and Amelle had nearly drifted into a doze when Fenris spoke again.

“You will have to teach her.”

“I will,” she sighed.  “Maker, is this how my father felt?”  She turned her head to look at him through the blades of grass.  “It’s slightly terrifying.”

“More terrifying than facing down a High Dragon?”

“Infinitely.”

He considered this.  “More terrifying than the Varterral?”

“Absolutely,” she replied without hesitation.

Then Fenris arched an eyebrow and shot her a smirk.  “…Twice?”

Amelle made a face.  “All right.  Maybe not quite that terrifying.  Still.  I’ve never…  taught anyone anything.  Maker’s breath, witness my brother; he spent most of his childhood—and a not-small portion of his adulthood—accusing me of being _controlling_.”

“Your brother is not your daughter.  Mirae will put her mind to whatever you teach her.”

“She’s growing up—and with this little wrinkle, she’s already grown up more than I’m okay with,” Amelle replied, frowning up at the clouds.  “It was one thing when she was telling me she wanted to walk to town by herself—”

“She asked such a thing?” he asked sharply, lifting his head to look at her.  “At her age?”

“Fenris, she’s _eleven_.”  Amelle grinned.  “And it won’t be long before she’s conjuring fireballs or Andraste only knows what else.  Walking to town alone would have been _easy_ to parent our way through.”

“Hmph,” he grumbled.  “Fireballs or no, she is not old enough to walk to town alone.”

With a soft chuckle, Amelle leaned over, pressing a kiss against her husband’s sun-warmed cheek.

“What’s so funny?”

“She knew you’d say no.  Now I don’t have to.”  She kissed him again, letting her lips linger against his skin.  “Good thing, too,” she murmured, resting her forehead against his temple as the sun beat down upon her back and Fenris’ hair tickled her face.  “I have a feeling I’m going to have my hands full with all the fireballs.”


End file.
